


Chasing Sky

by grayseeker



Series: Unbroken [2]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Angst, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Introspection, Loneliness, Lost Love, M/M, Masturbation, Obsession, Starscream Character Study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 01:09:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5519876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grayseeker/pseuds/grayseeker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Starscream's frame trembled, his spark ached for him. How could he be so weak as to allow this? Why could he never forget?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chasing Sky

**Author's Note:**

> While going through some old scenes, I came across a half-written bit with Starscream pleasuring himself to thoughts of Skyfire. It called to me for some reason, and _this_ angsty little thing was born. It takes place just after the episode _Day of the Machines_ , in which Skyfire gets captured and held prisoner aboard an oil tanker, and could be considered a prequel to "Under His Wing." It gives some insight into Starscream's state of mind during that story, so I'm including it in the "Unbroken" series. Thanks to [Dark Star of Chaos](http://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkDecepticon) for pointing out some typos on my earlier draft. I have probably made a few new ones by now. ;-)

Starscream hissed as hot solvent spray touched the back of his neck. It stung where it hit the damaged areas, but did nothing to quell the ache of want that hummed through his frame. Blame Megatron. He might not know how to finish anything, including this war, but he sure knew how to _start_ something.

He held still, gritting his dentae while the solvents did their work. They would wash out any impurities that might cause corrosion, and later, once he got back to his quarters, he'd find a nanite patch large enough to stabilize the loose plating. With any luck, he'd be able to forget about the whole thing by orn's end. The last thing he wanted was to end up in the repair bay over something like this.

It wasn't that Hook wouldn't be able to fix the damage. It was more the questions he would ask, and the way he'd look at Starscream as if he owed him some kind of an explanation. Which clearly, he did not. He didn't have to explain anything to anyone, including his handling of a certain Autobot prisoner situation. Apparently Megatron thought otherwise on that latter point, though why he couldn't have simply asked Starscream about it, rather than instigate an interrogation-by-fragging, was another question.

Megatron hadn't shown much interest lately, so Starscream had been surprised when he'd dropped by his quarters, and doubly so when he'd scruffed him in the midst of the proceedings and slammed his face against the wall. Why, he'd demanded to know, had Starscream chosen to lock the prisoners in that _particular_ room aboard the oil tanker, a room that just happened to contain a device that would enable them to easily escape? And why, he'd also wanted to know, had two of the smallest Decepticons been assigned as guards when one of the prisoners just happened to be the largest Autobot currently stationed on Earth?

Starscream had, of course, explained that he hadn't known about the electromagnet. How could he be expected to know that the flesh creatures even _had_ such a technology, let alone that they would stash one in the cargo bay of one of their oil tankers? It defied reason, didn't it? As for the guards, Rumble and Ravage obviously hadn't been his first choice; they'd simply been available. 

Megatron had considered this for what had seemed like an eternity, though from Starscream's perspective, _any_ length of time would have seemed like an eternity while Megatron's hand was crushing his neck. Eventually, though, he'd released his grip, pulled out, and stalked from the room without a word. It was the silence that bothered Starscream most, because it made it so hard to tell whether Megatron had bought his explanation. 

There was, of course, no reason for him _not_ to buy it. It wasn't as if he _knew_. No one knew, thanks to the simple fact that Starscream hadn't spoken of it, to anyone, in the equivalent of nine million Earth years. Starscream could only conclude that his commander was having some kind of meltdown in his logic center, which just went to prove that it was time for a change of leadership. 

When he was sure the spray had done its work, he sagged back against the cubicle wall with a sigh, and took a handful of cleansing gel from the dispenser. He spread it over his thighs, scrubbing away the telltale smears of lubricant, then curled his fingers against his valve covering and nudged it open, flinching with pain as the spray touched the bruised protoform underneath. Megatron had not exactly been gentle, though there didn't seem to be any real damage. 

A judicious application of cleansing gel, followed by more of the hot spray, made it possible to put the incident out of his mind. He was lucky that this had happened during the rest-cycle period, when the officers' washracks could be counted on to be empty. He preferred dealing with this kind of thing privately, and with minimal fuss, though having the place to himself offered certain… _other_ advantages, too. Such as, perhaps, being able to take care of the deep physical yearning that Megatron had provoked in him, yet hadn't bothered to satisfy.

He closed his valve cover firmly as he cast his mind back over a number of scenarios that might serve his purposes, finally settling on the most recent time Dirge had orally serviced him. It had happened in these very washracks, again during an off-shift, and Starscream had been leaning against the wall just as he was now. It was easy to recall the sensation of Dirge's hands locked around his hips, and the tips of his own digits became Dirge's slick glossa tracing the edges of his spike panel. 

Starscream arched against his hand just as he had against Dirge's lips, making him beg for it. Finally, when neither of them could take any more, he'd uncaged his fully erect spike and Dirge had swallowed him to the hilt. He opened his panel and thrust fitfully into his own palm as he recalled the hot, tight mouth wrapped around his length, sucking on him greedily. It had been good. _Dirge_ was good—surprisingly so, considering the aura of priestly asceticism he otherwise carried with him. It was a memory that Starscream had used to effect several times already, but tonight his spike wasn't cooperating.

It was as if all his arousal was being channeled the other way. His hand drifted of its own accord, abandoning his spike to burrow between his legs and trace that forbidden part of himself that only Megatron was allowed access to. This was dangerous. He couldn't afford to be caught doing this, but the chances of that were remote, and besides… well, sometimes, you just had to finish things for yourself.

He spared a glance toward the door, which was still closed, and opened his nether panel. The lips of his valve were swollen and achingly sensitive, and he flinched as his palm grazed the tip of his external node, which was poking out from between the folds. It was painfully erect, and the sensation was too intense to really be pleasurable, but warmth bloomed when he stroked around the node, rolling and squeezing it between its protective petals until… yes. _There_. That was perfect.

He rocked his hips, finding his rhythm and just the right amount of pressure, his mind carefully blank. His memory banks held no analogue for this sensation apart from moments such as this, when he provided it for himself. He would never touch himself this way while Megatron was fragging him, nor would Megatron deign to offer such a thing, because it would be interpreted as a sign of weakness. No one had touched him like _this_ since…

 _No,_ he warned himself. _Don't go there._

But his traitorous mind already was. He had convinced himself that this particular memory was nothing more than a dream best forgotten, but the sensations rose sharp and clear, seemingly undiminished by the aeons of time that had passed since then. That scent of desire that belonged to just one mech, and one alone. The sweep of broad shoulders framed by powerful wings, and the big hands pinning his hips in place, strong enough to crush them but ever so gentle, and the sound of that _particular_ engine reverberation, that deep, resonant growl that had always made his knees tremble. 

Anger blazed up in him with lightning brilliance. How could he be so weak as to allow this? Why could he never forget? That touch, those hands, that soft voice murmuring his name. Those ghostly kisses along the lower curve of his fuselage, the gentle nips to the sensitive seals at the edges of his canopy… that face. Upturned to his, blue optics fathomless as the sky, and that smile, the one that he'd believed was for him alone—and now, never would be again. It had all been a lie. The promises they'd made to each other meant nothing, apparently, when compared with Skyfire's concern over a handful of Autobots and some puny flesh-creatures.

But. 

When Skyfire had attacked him, in the end, he hadn't fought back. He hadn't fired on him during their dogfight, even when his life had depended on it. He _couldn't_. And when Skyfire had been captured and locked up inside that pyramid, Starscream had botched Megatron's aim just enough so that the Decepticons would lose the battle, giving Skyfire a chance to escape. And when Skyfire had become their prisoner _again_ , just the day before, Starscream had improvised an escape plan. And… he couldn't stop following him. Couldn't stop tracking him from the edges of space, watching and waiting for just a glimpse of broad white wings beneath an alien sky. 

Skyfire didn't love him. He probably never had. How _could_ he, when he'd abandoned him so easily, and for so little reason? Yet Starscream's frame trembled for him, his spark ached. What he wanted right now flew in the face of every one of his carefully honed defenses, but he couldn't _stop_. In his mind, he ground himself against Skyfire's face.

 _Take that, suck it,_ he thought savagely, but the Skyfire in his memory seemed glad to. His firm lips molded to Starscream's stiff, swollen node and nibbled softly, teasing it with with flicks and swirls of his glossa. Starscream's vents grew ragged as he arched beneath the spray, steam billowing around him. His knees trembled and he pressed back against the cubicle wall as Skyfire's glossa pushed between his folds and circled his entrance, not quite breaching him—not yet, then retreated to tongue his node once more with firm, expert strokes, humming pleasured contentment.

Starscream's wings flexed, his whole frame quivering with need. He let his head fall back, his mouth forming silent entreaties as Skyfire's big hand delved between his legs, probing the ring of sensors surrounding his entrance. He was dripping now, and not just from the spray, and he couldn't hold back a whimper as a large finger worked its way into his channel. Starscream used two of his own fingers for the same effect. Touching himself this way was taboo, totally outside protocol, but his valve didn't seem to care and, just for the moment, neither did he. 

He pumped in and out, feeling his tight heat clench and grip around his digits, then switched hands and brought his dew-slick fingers up to his mouth as he imagined Skyfire rising to kiss him. Skyfire plunged his glossa deep, giving Starscream a taste of himself while he plundered his mouth, tasting him from the inside. A stifled groan clawed its way up from somewhere in his chest as he raised one leg, bracing his heel against the cubicle's opposite wall. He didn't have to ask for what he needed; Skyfire just understood. He lifted him, cradling his hips in both hands, and nudged the tip of his big, blunt spike against his entrance.

Starscream went still. He could feel the tight drumbeat of his systems-pulse through the tips of his digits, his frame hypersensitive to the pounding spray, and he _wanted_. How he wanted.

"Sky, oh Primus, oh _please_ …"

Skyfire pushed, and it burned. His valve was tender from Megatron's rough treatment of it, but that only served to heighten the illusion. His three fingers were a poor substitute for Skyfire's girth, but he could recall that familiar stretch, the incredible sensation of being stuffed to the point where he thought he might burst, and he was rising now, riding the warm thermals that would carry him up and into freefall…

The door snapped open, and Starscream froze. There was someone in the doorway, staring at him. 

"Oh! S… sorry," a familiar voice stammered. "I didn't think anyone would be in here."

"Scavenger?" Starscream's voice was a weak rasp.

"Yeah, I'm… uh." Scavenger shifted his weight. "Sorry," he repeated. "I should go. Unless… uh." His gaze, though hidden by his visor, was clearly traveling the length of Starscream's frame. "Unless you'd like some help with… uh. What you're doing?"

Scavenger's gaze had settled, rather blatantly, on Starscream's spike. These cubicles lacked doors, and though Scavenger didn't have a direct line of sight into the one Starscream was in, Starscream still doubted that his vantage point would leave much to the imagination. By some miracle, the leg he'd happened to raise was the one closer to the door, though, and given the room's imperfect lighting, there was a chance that Scavenger hadn't seen the full _extent_ of what Starscream had been doing to himself. Was it possible that he could bluff his way through this?

He eased his fingers out of himself and closed his valve panel, then slid his hand up to cradle his spike. It was standing stiff and erect against his lower canopy, having belatedly decided to join the party. He gave a quick roll of his hips, a gesture which Scavenger would mistake for mere lewdness, though in fact it served to redirect the spray onto his groin and wash away any telltale streaks of lubricant that had ended up in the "wrong" places. 

"Well?" he demanded. "Don't just stand there! Get over here, and down on your knees."

Scavenger didn't have to be asked twice. He scurried over and slid to his knees, barely giving himself time to get his mask open before taking Starscream's spike in his mouth. It was nothing he hadn't done before. They did frag occasionally, and Scavenger was no less eager than he usually was. His excitement was probably at least partly relief over not getting in trouble for having intruded on the officers' washracks, though the sheer enthusiasm he brought to his task was… well, commendable.

Unfortunately, it wasn't doing a damn thing for Starscream. His valve felt empty and aching, his spike numb, and his spark was a leaden weight inside his chest. Eventually, with a snarl of irritation, he disengaged and stalked out, leaving Scavenger alone beneath the cooling spray. He stomped back to his quarters and once inside, finished with a few swift, savage tugs to his spike. He watched himself come, his overload a technical, almost scientific event that might just as well have been happening to someone else. 

At last he sank down on the edge of his berth, reached in his subspace, and took out the small, blackened object he'd carried with him for nine million years. As he turned it in his hands, he wondered if Skyfire still remembered the orns they'd spent working on it. The device had never worked, and their colleagues had laughed at them, but neither of them had cared. It hadn't mattered if the thing worked or not, or what anyone else thought of them, because they'd had each other.

He really ought to throw it away. Skyfire had; he'd turned his back on him without a thought, as if everything they'd shared had meant nothing. But he knew he wasn't going to, and he also knew that he wasn't going to recharge tonight. He was going to fly out to the edges of space and wait there, searching for just a glimpse of broad, white wings slicing through the clouds below, knowing that in spite of all reason, he'd never stop, he couldn't.

Couldn't stop chasing Sky.


End file.
